


Preview: Pinhole Images

by BleedingTypewriter



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bisexual Disaster Lance (Voltron), Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Cammer Keith (Voltron), Gay Disaster Keith (Voltron), Gay Keith (Voltron), Himbo Disaster Klance, Lance (Voltron) gets around, M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, One Night Stands, Roommates, Sex Worker Keith (Voltron), Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism, Zine Preview, and they were ROOMMATES
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:35:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22925761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleedingTypewriter/pseuds/BleedingTypewriter
Summary: Two preview chapters from Pinhole Images, a forthcoming double-sided zine that explores both Keith's and Lance's points of view as they navigate a less-than-conventional, unspoken roommate agreement.Keith fills in the gaps of his part-time bookstore gig by getting off for strangers on the internet. That's fine.His newish roommate, Lance, has started bringing home one night stands. That's fine, too. (Annoying, but fine.)But when Keith sticks his hands down his pants and brings himself off to the sounds of Lance with his one night stand—when he does it again on camera—that's not fine at all. It's not fine any of the times he does it, and yet he finds he can't stop. And he's less and less sure that Lance isn't doing it on purpose...Meanwhile, Lance is, objectively, having the time of his life. He's in university with enough of a scholarship to afford rent on his coffee shop salary, and he actually gets along decently well with his (irritatingly hot) new roomie. He's young and single and definitely mingling.When he finds out the truth about his (really, really irritatingly hot) new roommate, that should ruin things.Shouldn't it?
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 127





	1. Keith, Chapter 2

**Author's Note:**

> This is a preview chapter from a zine I'm planning on releasing later this year, an extended version of the Roommate AU I posted on Twitter. ([Five part Twitter thread series begins here.](https://twitter.com/BleedingType/status/1202300946409123840)) The zine will feature the same story told from two points of view, each point of view taking up half of a double-sided book.
> 
> At this point in the story, Keith has listened in for the first time on Lance fucking someone (a woman) on the other side of their shared bedroom wall in chapter one. He is, understandably, a little mortified about it, even as he sees the monetary potential, given his part-time job.

_He would have made bank if he’d done that on stream._

The thought doesn’t leave Keith alone.

He wakes up the next morning with a pair of ruined underwear shoved between the mattress and the wall (gross) and dried come flaking in his pubes (fucking _gross_ ) and a relentless sense of queasy scandal (not nearly as gross as it should be), and thinks _I’d have made bank if I’d done that on stream._

He sneaks by Lance’s boldly cracked door and resists the urge to peek in (even when he catches the edge of a shapely, naked leg draped over the side of the bed) and puts music on so he can jerk off in the shower (even though he’s a little sore and raw), and thinks _I’d have made bank if I’d done that on stream_.

He’s so busy side-eying Lance’s still-cracked door as he heads for the kitchen afterward that he nearly runs straight into the man. Lance has to do an exaggerated jig to save Keith being covered in the coffee he’s carrying (good thing, too: Lance takes his coffee with obscene amounts of milk and sugar, and Keith is sure it’d be nasty sticky). Keith fumbles the towel he’s using to scrubs at his hair and has to catch it with one foot. His “Hey!” lands somewhere underneath Lance’s “Wha–hey–whoa– _whoa_!” and when they’ve both settled in equally ridiculous poses, somehow spill-free, Lance puts his free hand up with an, “And it’s good!” and Keith thinks _It’s so fucking dumb that I’d have made bank if I’d done that shit on stream._

“So by the way,” Lance says as Keith edges around him, reclaimed towel carefully draped over his head so he can’t see his roommate’s face even peripherally. “I’m sorry if I was, uh...if it got too loud last night, or…”

Keith shrugs and pours too heavily into his cup so some coffee slops over the side and says to the rag he grabs to clean up, “You weren’t.”

It’s not even technically a lie. He _hadn’t_ been too loud. Not for Keith’s purposes.

(Gross.)

Even Lance seems unconvinced. “You sure? I can always, uh...make other arrangements…”

Of course he could. He could go back to her place. He could fuck in his car. He could get a cheap hotel he still can’t afford with his casual hours at the café.

Or he could bring women back here.

And Keith could make bank on stream.

( _Gross_.)

“It’s fine, Lance.” He sips his coffee and manages not to flinch even though holy _fuck_ it’s hot. It leaves a raw spot in the middle of his tongue. The back of his hair is still wet, and a couple drips land between his shoulder blades, markedly cold in comparison to the burning at the back of his throat.

It’s not fine.

It’s gross.

“Alrighty-roony, then, roomie,” Lance says, and Keith glances at him just enough to catch his single finger gun.

Alrighty-roony then.

*** *** ***

In Keith’s defence, Lance kind of makes the decision for him.

Kind of.

In a way.

Look, Saturdays are his usual stream night, so he’s already naked, already hard, already on display with just his eyes carefully out of frame and a playful smirk inside it.

He's already thinking about it: how much fucking _money_ he could have made.

How fucking _hard_ he’d come.

How fucking hard _Lance_ had come.

So when he hears Lance’s bedroom door and an ensuing heavy thud, like someone’s been pushed onto the bed and jostled it against the wall…what is he _supposed_ to do with that?

When the ensuing moan is distinctly, unmistakably _male_ … _what the fuck is he supposed to do with that_?

The moan sounds again, as if in pointed confirmation: Lance is hooking up with a guy.

Lance is making a guy make _that_ noise.

And Keith is already busy making _himself_ moan for his audience.

(Keeping himself _quiet_ , now.)

So what the fuck is he supposed to do with that _except_ let his mouth drop open on camera and then curl it into a smirk? _Except_ bring his finger up in a shushing motion before pointing at the wall behind him? _Except_ type one-handed in the chat while he idly traces one nipple with the other?:

 **RedddTexxx:** Can you hear that? Roommate hookup.

The responses are intrigued; curious.

ttobba15ccu: Oh shit

5undryed_t0mat: voyeur voyeur voYEUR VOYEUR VOY💦💦💦

On the other side of the wall, there’s a series of shuffling noises (are they undressing? Making out? Has Lance pressed his partner deep into the sheets and started leaving marks on his neck? _Does_ he leave marks on necks? Or is he the type to keep them more hidden? Is he nipping at a collarbone and trying to figure out exactly where below that he’s going to leave a bite mark so his partner remembers him for days? _Fuck_.).

And then Lance groans outright.

He groans outright while he’s ravishing a guy.

Keith abandons his nipple; goes straight for his cock and starts up a slow rhythm, teasing himself in a loose grip.

The responses are positive.

hot4tchr: is he fckn a guy or grl??

Mas0chris7: turn up the mic so we can hear

ttobba15ccu: What does he look like

Keith licks his lips; almost answers verbally; catches himself and huffs a little noise that’s part laugh and mostly arousal. He pulls his laptop closer and shimmies closer to the wall so the sound is clearer and feels immense relief at not having to be honest for the first time out loud.

 **RedddTexxx:** he’s hot. Latino. Blue eyes. Looks even better than he sounds.

muschunk6925: he ur bf? U swing?

 **RedddTexxx:** def not my bf. Didn’t even know he was into guys.

insrtsmthnght: til now lmaooooooooo

cumngo_mostlycum: mayb he’s gay4pay. see if you can get some for a tenner $🍆

Mas0chris7: oooo new bi f r e s h m e a t lol gonna fuck him Texxx?

Keith writes ha I wish, then thinks better of it and goes for something a little more coy (and even more honest, which in itself is a slightly concerning turn-on):

 **RedddTexxx:** gonna think about fucking him...

He has to jab at the mute button; his volume is on low, but the influx of _bee-da-deep_ s—chat notifications all piling up on top of one another—is shrill enough to be noticeable regardless. The responses are _very_ positive.

The tips are even better.

The way he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from speeding up and giving far too fast a show is even better still.

He’s going to make bank doing this on stream.

But suddenly that fact seems far less important than the fact that he’s so hard at this— _all_ of this—that it scares him a little.

Not enough to stop. But a little.

Enough to make him harder.

He’s pretty sure his laptop mic still can’t pick up the specifics. It gives him a giddy thrill to know that the words—the _exact_ timbre and shape of them—are for him alone.

“Off,” he can hear Lance say, not quite that dominant growl yet, but getting there. “Take them off.”

Keith moves until his back is against the wall, so he doesn’t have to hold himself up when he abandons his cock to start tracing his fingertips around his nipples again. This close to the thin divider, he can hear the faint, profane noise of his neighbours' kissing.

The chat is loving it.

hot4tchr: u watch him fool around b4????

Keith huffs a quiet laugh.

 **RedddTexxx:** no. thought about it before though. he wears these sweatpants around the apt so i can see how big he is...

The truth in it makes his cock throb.

 **RedddTexxx:** makes me so hard every time he does. Wanna see what i do then?

God, if Lance only _knew_ how much money he was making him tonight.

The truth in that thought makes Keith's cock throb, too.

“Let me suck you,” the guy on the other side of the wall begs, “ _Please_.”

Fuck, what must Lance look like to garner _that_ reaction? Probably infuriatingly perfect: uncut, nestled in curls, just big enough to be a _challenge_. He’s probably already wet at the tip, the way Keith likes.

Not like Keith’s boring, blue dildo: smooth and average-sized and utilitarian. But as he hears Lance’s moaned response—”Fuck yeah, get your mouth on me…”—and slides the fake dick between his lips with a muted gasp, he figures it’ll do the trick in a pinch.

Judging by the tips, his viewers agree.

The guy sounds a bit too sloppy for Keith’s tastes; changes tempo a little too often. Keith takes his time; works his lips lower and lower until he can touch the back of his own throat with the blue silicone and make his eyes water (the tears catch the light on camera).

Lance babbles when he’s getting blown. Of course he does, because Keith loves when men do that.

“Fuck...you look so good like that...yeah, just like that, _just_ like that, _ah_ –!...”

Are his hands in the guy’s hair? Is he guiding him now? Pulling him up and down; making him take it? Or does he languish back on two bent elbows, blue eyes half-lidded, basking in the pleasure like it’s owed to him.

Keith gags himself on his dildo as he reaches for the lube.

By the time he hears them shifting on the other side of the wall, he’s already got two fingers buried inside himself, still deep-throating the toy, fucking _earning_ each one of those tips.

“ _C’mere_ ,” Lance growls. “Come the fuck here.”

Keith can’t tell, for a moment, what Lance is doing. There’s just the guy’s series of surprised, panted moans. And then his voice:

“ _Fuck_ , baby, you gonna eat me out?”

Keith is suddenly _very_ glad for the silicone in his mouth. It muffles the stuttery little hum he can’t quite stifle. After a moment (when he’s sure he can be quiet), he takes it out and uses it to spread the drop of pre at the tip of his own dick: in a swirl, first, then downward so that the shine is visible in a shiny smear on stream. He rocks his hips down hard onto his fingers, momentarily overtaken by salaciously detailed fever dreams:

Lance’s strong, slender hands splayed over pale cheeks, brazenly spreading them apart.

Those unfairly long lashes resting against cheekbones flushed with exertion as he works his tongue inside; deeper; _deeper_ ; shallower, so he’s teasing the rim and making his partner writhe and holding his hips steady so he doesn’t wriggle away...

(The guy’s moaning begins to stutter; starts to cut itself off with variations on, “Your _fingers_ , oh my god _theretherethere_ …”)

 _Fuck_ , Lance’s tongue working around his fingers, buried to the knuckle, while further down he starts to rut into the sheets, already hard; already thinking of burying his perfect cock inside the spot he's opening up and how fucking _good_ it’s going to feel.

 **RedddTexxx:** can you still hear them? 25 tips and i’ll use my toy when they fuck

He hasn’t made a goal so fast since the time he’d promised to rip off the stockings he’d been wearing and use them as a gag. Not since he’d promised to keep his prostate massager inside for another minute for every tip up to thirty and ended up nearly passing out on camera.

Anyway.

“Fuck me,” the guy starts chanting, “Fuck me, fuck me, _please_ …”

And that’s kind of a trip, because Keith has the tendency to do that, too. He can’t help but join in, muttering low under his breath so he can’t be heard: “Fuck me, please, fuck me, _please_ …”

Lance must be staring him down by now; crawling up his body, flipping him over over, lubing him up…is he doing that thing that Keith is weak for? Has he gotten himself all wet and shiny so he can use his own cock to get his partner’s twitching hole ready for him? Is he sliding over, tapping, prodding, doing all those obnoxious things that piss Keith off enough to make him leak?

“You ready for me?”

He’s ready. God, _fuck_ , he’s _so_ ready. Keith pulls his own fingers from himself; lubes up his toy; teases the tip against his ass, running it over his hole again and again, catching and releasing on the rim.

Lance’s cock would be so much better.

He can _hear_ how much better it would be...

“Beg me for it,” Lance orders.

Keith teases the toy more firmly against himself; lets just the tip slide in and then pop out again. “Fucking _please_ …” he whispers.

“Fucking _please_ ,” Lance’s partner begs.

Keith can tell when Lance thrusts in. He hisses, “Yeah? You want it that bad? Want me to fuck you like this?” and the guy lets out a strangled, euphoric, “Fu- _huck_ yeah,” and there’s a distinct thump, like he’s splayed his hands out to the sides and hit the wall, and Lance chokes, “That’s it, _that’s it_ , shit,” and groans harsh and visceral.

Keith arches his back as he fucks into himself; thumps his head against the wall and fists his hand around his cock and barely clamps down on his groan in time.

A moment later and Lance chases it with a strangled, “Don’t move. Don’t fuckin’ move. Wait right there until I decide to give you my cock.”

There’s another spanking noise, like the last time, only this time there’s an answering moan, and Lance growls, “Oh? You like that?” and follows it up with another one, firmer; _louder_.

“Holy shit,” the guy moans. “Holy _fuck._ ”

Keith echoes the sentiment, breathy and almost silent. He wishes he’d used a vibrator. With just a little extra stimulation, Keith is starting to think he could get off on this hands-free.

He tucks that thought away for a future stream.

(...)

(Wait.)

(Wait, no, he doesn’t, because that would mean he’s thinking about doing this again.)

( _Planning_ on doing it again.)

(And he’s not.)

(...)

(He’s _not_.)

The noise from the other side of the wall devolves into abject filth: a cacophony of spanking, moaning, unapologetic _fucking_.

And Lance’s voice: “Say my name. Say my fucking name.”

The noise on _this_ side of the wall is no better: Keith sounds so _wet_ , his hand sloppy with precome, the dildo sliding slick and easy as he loosens and fucks himself with increasing abandon.

“Lance,” he whispers, “Fuck, _Lance_ , don’t stop…”

(“Lance,” the guy on the other side moans, unabashed and _loud_ , “Fuck, _Lance_ , don’t stop…”)

“Get yourself off for me,” Lance says, and it takes Keith a panicked second to realize he must be talking to his partner. “That’s it, show me what I do to you, _show me_ …”

The guy moans, and there’s a slippery sort of repetitive noise above the sound of Lance’s thrusts that can only be his jerking off, hard.

Fuck, Keith is going to come.

He’s going to come harder than he has in _months_ , and it’s because of _Lance McClain’s fucking cock_ , and he’s never even _seen it_.

The annoyance of it edges him closer.

“Ke–Keep going. Make me come,” Lance groans, “Shoot all over yourself and let me feel how tight you get.”

Keith shoots all over himself.

He tightens so much around the toy that the drag becomes a strain on his arm.

He can’t help the sound he makes—a low, shaky hum that might have half of Lance’s name in it—but Lance’s partner covers it nicely with his own half-shouted release.

Lance helps, too. He must come a second afterward, letting loose three more sharp slaps beneath the sound of his loud, mindless praise: “Fuck, you feel so good, _so good_ …”

It makes Keith gasp one last time; has him twitching and spilling one last drop into the mess already pooling around his belly button.

“Fuck,” Lance’s partner sighs, “Holy _shit_ …”

God, even Lance’s easy, post-coital laughter makes Keith’s stomach tense.

The chat is going wild.

He’s hit his tip goal for the fucking _month_.

“Fuck,” he sighs, chest still heaving, “Holy _shit_ …”


	2. Lance, Chapter 2

It’s not until he hears the shower cut on that Lance considers the fact that Keith might be pissed at him. What’s-her-name (Lance refuses to call her _Andrea,_ even in his head, after last night’s airy _Chance_ ) hadn’t exactly been quiet, and while Lance had tried his best, it occurs to him that he can hear the lyrics to the music Keith is playing in the bathroom, and that’s a couple doors down with the door closed, and he’s not even playing it all that _loud_ , so…

Oops.

Keith _probably_ heard him. Which means he’s _probably_ pissed.

Or he’ll do that _Keith_ thing, where he gets all prickly because he’s uncomfortable (and _god forbid_ anyone figure out he’s a human with feelings that make actual sense).

Or that _other_ Keith thing, where he recedes into broody silence because he thinks that’s somehow better than just clenching up and hashing out whatever the issue is.

Anyway, whatever his reaction, it’s going to require caffeine. Lance only ever sleeps _okay_ after he fucks. The deep sleep will come tonight, when his skin feels tight enough to keep all his parts bound together again.

They have no bathroom fan, so Lance has to look at the floor to avoid looking at the cracked bathroom door. It’s not like he’d be able to see anything—the mirror faces the toilet and the framed photo of Lance giving a backwards peace sign above it ( _dropping a deuce_ he’d explained to Keith with a double-tongue-click and two waggled eyebrows; he’d been blown away when his surly-seeming new roomie had snorted and let him hang the thing up). It’s the principle of the thing, though.

…

Okie doke, right-as-rain, _fine_ , he admits it: maybe having a super hot, sullen-but-sexy roommate isn’t so great when the teasing doesn’t overflow into overt flirtation like he’d expected. _Hoped_ , even.

He and Keith get along better than he’d planned, but evidently not near as well as he’d anticipated, after the fact. They’re fine roommates; fine _friends_ , even, despite the fact that their friendship is rooted in a respectful, contemptuous sort of rivalry. But there’s a groove in their earth there that Lance can’t quite navigate, yet; a pothole between friend and flirt that they’re not tripping over so much as stopping altogether to avoid.

So Lance doesn’t look at the open door with its steam billowing out alongside Keith’s muddled hipster music (echoing tinny and sharp against the bathroom tile from his shitty bluetooth speaker because he’s a _total layman_ who refuses to just _pair his phone with Lance’s Google Home Mini it’s not even that hard_ —ugh, _whatever_ ) because Keith’s naked in there.

He has enough to think about when it comes to nudity and Keith.

There’s a wall in between in the other scenario, not a shower curtain, but whatever. Close enough. The parallels are enough to make him avert his eyes, anyway.

He makes coffee on auto-pilot, steadfastly avoiding the cheap, probably stale canister of bargain nonsense he’d found in the cupboard when he’d moved in. Keith insists there’s no difference between it and the local roast Lance gets with his discount form work, because he either has the palate of a nine-year-old or is being purposely obtuse to keep up his _cool guy vibe_ , or whatever (Lance hasn’t quite decided how much of that is posturing, yet). ‘ _How can you taste the coffee under all the sugar, anyway?_ ’ Keith likes to counter, which is...it’s a _different thing_ , okay? He can still appreciate the difference between coffee and swamp sludge, even with a little sugar and milk.

He’s so busy thinking about Keith’s impossible taste (and definitely not his impossible abs _just_ on the other side of a door, like he’d been _just_ on the other side of the wall the night before) that he nearly runs straight into the man. He almost trips over his own feet, but manages to compensate with a couple flailed limbs and a sharp eye on the coffee that kisses the edge of his cup. A towel comes fluttering down from Keith’s head and he kicks one foot out to catch it, so Lance has to jerk out of the way again (and, _hey, hey, hey, check out the Sharpshooter_ , he keeps his coffee in his cup for a second time). They sputter a mixture of “Wha-Hey-hey-whoa- _whoa_!”

When it’s clear they’ve stopped wobbling and managed not to spill or collide, Lance throws his free hand in the air. “And it’s good!”

He tries to be nonchalant about it, but he studies Keith’s face as he slips by. He doesn’t smile, really, but he’s not frowning, and he’s not doing that super scowl of his (where his bangs seem to cast longer shadows and his eyes start to look almost indigo and it really, _really_ shouldn’t be hot considering the mood it betrays). When Keith slips his towel back over his head, hanging so Lance can’t see his face anymore, it’s over a relatively neutral expression.

Still, he can’t be sure…

And more than that, he can’t be sure how _Keith_ , of all people, would handle hearing _that_ …

“So by the way,” Lance ventures; pauses. He can’t decide if being casual about it will make it worse or not. Keith might appreciate the bluntness in that ‘ _it doesn’t have to be complicated_’-touting way of his. Or he might bristle at the vulgarity. He might bristle, anyway, at the audacity of Lance bringing it up at all. “I’m sorry if I was, uh…” He clears his throat, and clarifies into his mug, “...if it got too loud last night, or…”

“You weren’t.”

Lance glances up. Keith is wiping the counter with a rag, coffee cup in one hand, and that’s _not_ helpful. He _looks_ pretty unbothered, still, but the spillage might suggest otherwise. (Or it might suggest that Keith is tired. But then, he might be tired because Lance kept him up. Or...god, what he’d give for just a _hint_ of clarity, here.)

“You sure?” Lance asks; hopes that Keith will take it for the olive branch it is. “I can always, uh...make other arrangements…”

The rag Keith’d been using lands in the sink with a wet plop. “It’s fine, Lance,” he says, and takes a gulp from his mug (which is _still steaming_ , the absolute heat-freak) which makes the skin of his throat shift, and the light hits the water droplets clinging there just right, and Lance sips his own coffee to get a little sweetness on his tongue that isn’t _totally inappropriate_.

He considers pushing it just a little more, unconvinced that it’s actually _fine_ , but that feels like playing with fire. “Alrighty-roonie, then, roomie,” he says, and adds in a popped finger gun for good measure.

Keith rolls his eyes at him, which is a good sign.

Alrighty-roony then.

*** *** ***

It’s been a hot minute since Lance has fucked a dude, and he’s getting antsy about it.

Usually that kind of thing doesn’t bother him. He thinks about genitals the way he thinks about restaurants: what is he in the mood for? What’s nearby? Well, he _did_ just have that, but that’s okay, he’s fine with more of the same. He’s a university student, after all; he could live on nothing but ramen (nothing but his left fist) if he had to. Right now, though, he _doesn’t_ have to. Right now he’s craving steak; in the mood for something decadent and meaty and _hard_.

(The metaphor, he thinks, has fallen apart somewhere in there, but the point remains.)

Honestly, he could hit up Fame or redownload Grindr, but it’s been so long that he feels a little rusty. He finds himself unsure if his _cool guy barista but not a hipster (but kind of a hipster)_ thing will work in the timeframe he wants it to. (And yes, he’s aware how douchey _that_ is: having a _timeframe_. But he’s got a mullet-shaped itch getting steadily stronger, skittering out along all his limbs, and he’s kind of hoping some dick will scratch it. So yeah. _Timeframe._ )

So he caves.

He texts Holt.

The response takes a few minutes, and Lance is sure Matt takes every one of them to laugh his ass off.

Matt: lololololololololol

He’ll never hear the end of it.

But it’s Saturday night and he’s a little hard in his jeans already and he wants to _touch_ someone.

Lance: plz dont be a dick about this

Matt: LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL

Matt: No dice

All the same, he texts Lance a phone number, an assurance that he’s a friend who’s always up for a “blind date ;)))))))) ayyyyyy”, an address, and a name: _Seth_.

They meet at a bar, and he looks like a _Seth_. He has dark hair and green eyes, and he smirks when he tries to smile (and okay, Lance is starting to think he’d written off Matt’s drunken insistence on his matchmaking prowess a bit too early). He’s quick-witted, to boot, if a little too dry in places and too cocksure in others (and too kind in the spots in between, where Lance likes it mean).

He’s hot, and confident, and just as Lance is starting to feel a little guilty about the ‘He’ll do’ settling in his stomach, Seth downs the last of his drink and mirrors the sentiment out loud, “So you’ll do, huh?” It’s abrasive; paired with a dangerous grin; kinda sexy, honestly.

(He’s not sure when a lack of couth became such a _thing_ for him—probably sometime in September, as he unpacked the last box with his new roommate—but Lance is too hard to care at the moment.)

“I’ll do.”

On the way to their cars, Seth pulls him into the alley beside the bar and kisses him firm and dirty beneath a fire escape that looks like it might give and crush them at any second. “Your place?” he asks afterward, fingers curled into Lance’s belt loops, and Lance agrees while he can still taste the other man’s rye and coke behind his teeth, before he can think about all the reasons (the _one, mullet-shaped_ reason, really) he shouldn’t.

Keith’s bike is parked in its usual spot, on the patch of dead grass he’s not positive isn’t coming out of the guy’s damage deposit, so he should really take his hook-up elsewhere.

He really should.

Seth seems adventurous, he’d probably be down for some back seat action.

And the last time Lance did this, it was…

Seth meets him at the door; shoves him up against it in a way that has Lance feeling competitive and amused and determined (god, Matt really can pick ‘em, can’t he?). “My roommate’s home,” he says into Seth’s mouth.

“Hot,” he replies, “Think he’ll join in?”

Ha, Lance _wishes_.

It must show on his face that he _wishes_ , because Seth raises an eyebrow at him (he’s not as _sharp_ about it as Keith is), and look, Lance has never claimed to be a _strong_ man. He gives in with a smirk of his own and a switch of positions and a sharp breath in so he can taste the way Seth gasps.

It tastes like what Lance needs; like physicality with a delicious lack of context. He feels the framework start to slip away; lets his overactive mind flit over Seth’s body and movements and reactions instead of the million and one things it usually tries to focus on.

There are so many things he _doesn’t get_ , and so many ways to be reminded of all of them, but _this isn’t one_.

This he _definitely_ gets.

“No,” Lance says, “But he’ll get an earful if you can’t keep quiet.”

“Promises, promises…”

Jesus.

Lance is going to wreck this dude.

He considers telling him so, but he’d probably just respond with something all sultry and teasing, so he kisses him instead. He kisses him while he fumbles with his keys and gets the door open and kicks it shut behind them. He kisses him all the way up the hallway, past Keith’s closed door (with light spilling out the crack at the bottom; god, that shouldn’t make Lance so hard it gets uncomfortable pointed down against his leg), and into his room. It’s messy; uncoordinated; so obviously new and fleeting that Lance feels the anticipation hanging from his uvula.

He pushes Seth onto his unmade bed (a little dramatic, maybe, but the guy seems into that) and crawls over top of him, and he sees the first little inklings of submission on his face (not quite hard-won enough for Lance’s liking, but hot nonetheless). Lance leans in close; skips his lips and skims down his cheek and bites under Seth’s jaw where he can feel the vibration of the resulting moan.

It’s not overly loud.

But the wall isn’t overly thick, either.

Lance bites down again, harder.

Seth moans again, harder.

Jesus, _he’s going to wreck this dude_ and Keith is going to be like three feet away while he does it.

Seth goes for his belt first; slips his hands downward and scratches his stomach by accident and wriggles until he can get the thing undone. Lance likes the impatience of it; likes the way they writhe together to get their clothes off, too eager to get up. He likes the way he can feel how hard Seth already is as he slides his pants off, and the way he can press him into the mattress with his hips (force him into a grind that he only struggles against for a second before going boneless beneath it—what a shame).

He’s not sure if marks are okay ( _what a shame_ ), so Lance is careful as he nips and nibbles and sucks down Seth’s throat and along one collarbone ( _shit_ , he’s slender, but there’s a surety in his movements that reveals an intriguing strength). He grinds down a little more insistently, even though it hurts (he hasn’t had a chance to readjust yet, so his cock is still trapped against his leg), and hisses quietly against the flesh he’s kissing, “Fuck, _touch me_.”

And maybe he’s more partial to having to ask more than once—to goad a bit harder—but the disappointment is fleeting when thin, tenacious fingers dip beneath his underwear and wrap around him, rearranging him into a more comfortable position as they _squeeze_ , just a little too hard (that’s more like it).

He groans; only remembers halfway through to try and quiet it and isn’t all that successful. He closes his eyes and _uses_ that grip; fucks into it slow and grabs a handful of that dark hair in a loose fist. Seth gasps a little ‘ _Yeah–_ ’ so Lance tightens his fingers and tugs backward and teases at the revealed strip of skin (collarbone to earlobe, all pretty and stretched taut just for him, _fuck_ ) until Seth is making these little choking noises Lance can’t decide if he hopes Keith hears or not.

He tugs Seth back into a kiss and the man bucks up against him, and even though it forces his hand into an awkward angle where it’s wrapped around Lance, it’s worth it to feel Seth’s cock pulse against his hip. “Off,” Lance orders into his mouth. “Take them off.”

The hand slips out from Lance’s underwear, and Seth kisses him while he wriggles them both naked, and Lance can’t help but wonder if Keith would have said, “Ha, _make me_ ,” in Seth’s position. Or maybe he’d be obedient at first; would shimmy out of his clothes and then tease at his own cock and berate Lance for making him do it himself; would goad Lance into holding him down and _proving_ he’s worth it…

The thought makes him pulse, beading at the tip, and Seth must notice. (God, right, _Seth_ , the guy Lance is _actually fucking_.) “Let me suck you,” the man begs. “ _Please_.”

It should snap some sense into Lance; should make him _stop fantasizing about his next door roommate while screwing his one night stand, what the hell Loverboy_. But Lance is already slipping into that _zone_ : that heady lack of racing thoughts and indulgent self-permission to _take_ (as long as his partner gets some, too) that, alongside his natural desire for human contact, encompasses a solid 80 percent of the reason he does this. “Fuck yeah,” he says (instead of the ‘hold on, give me a sec’ he maybe should) and lets Seth roll him onto his back. “Get your mouth on me.”

Seth’s grin is wicked sharp in the low light— _predatory_ , almost (would Keith’s look like that? Or would he be softer around the edges to disguise the aggression; make Lance guess at the timing of the onslaught?). He shimmies down Lance’s body with little fanfare (Lance picks up the slack himself; pinches at his own nipples and runs a knuckle from rib to belly button and back) and licks his cock from base to tip without breaking eye contact before sealing his lips over the head.

“Fuck,” Lance breathes, and feels the coming babble in his throat. He thinks pointedly that he should make an effort to keep in inside; accepts simultaneously that he won’t (because Keith is _right there_ ; asleep, maybe, and groggily coming to with the sound of Lance’s pleasure a scant wall away). Seth’s hair is long enough to tickle Lance’s hips as he gets to work, sliding up and down with a clear, shameless pride in the sloppy noises he’s producing. He’s decent—good, even—but it’s the fact that he keeps looking up that really turns Lance’s crank. He swallows around Lance’s cock and follows it with a devastating quirked brow and two thumbs in the hollows of his hips and _shit_ Lance can’t quite remember why he was meant to be keeping quiet to start with.

“Fuck,” Lance moans, louder. “You look so good like that...yeah, just like that, _just_ like that, _ah_ –!” He doesn’t fist a hand in Seth’s hair again; instead rests one on the back of his head and another on his shoulder so he can feel the salacious up-down-up.

“You like that?” Seth asks, throaty and out of breath as he pulls off and rests his chin on Lance’s thigh, jerking his spit-wet cock with his left hand (the show-off).

It’s _far_ too coy; too _cat-that-got-the-cream_ when Lance is nowhere near finished (when Keith might hear and not understand exactly what his roommate is capable of, even though that’s fucked on every level and Lance knows it). “C’mere,” Lance growls. “Come the fuck here.”

Seth makes to shimmy back up Lance’s body, but the darker man is having none of it. He catches him halfway; flips their positions and then flings Seth onto his stomach with two no-nonsense hands on his waist. There’s a partial squeak of a protest that twists itself into a delighted laugh, and before Seth can follow it up with anything verbal Lance is mouthing at his lower back, moving steadily lower. His partner dissolves into surprised groans, and asks incredulously, “ _Fuck_ , baby, you gonna eat me out?”

Lance laves his tongue over Seth’s asshole, and that seems to be answer enough.

It’s been a while since Lance has done this, but the basics come back to him quick enough, and the rest follows with potent intoxication. He gorges himself on his partner’s body; prods and teases and experiments until he finds the things that make Seth choke; gives specific, careful pleasure and, for once, allows himself to delight in his own talent without the underlying guilt and boastfulness. There’s no posturing here; just prowess and desire; just Lance’s tongue and fingers and all the ways he loves to figure out how to use them.

And then there’s the fact that, from this angle, all Lance can see is the back of Seth’s head with it’s longish, dark hair at the end of that arched, pale spine. He’d have to be fucking blind (or maybe just less of a horndog with less of a crush) to miss the resemblance to Keith. He wonders if his roommate would be into this, or if he’d find it emasculating. Or if he’d be into it _because_ he’d find it emasculating. Would he blush all pretty and angry and go statue-stiff trying not to let on how fucking _good_ it feels? Would he lean back into it and demand _more, faster, deeper_ , increasingly frustrated as Lance’d give _less, slower, shallower_?

Would Keith press his weight down onto his own chest so he could reach back and hold himself open for Lance? Bite his lip and beg over his shoulder for Lance to _please, please, fucking please_ open him up?

It’s probably a little rude (though judging by the ensuing keening moans, Seth doesn’t think so), but Lance sinks his index finger in to the second knuckle with no warning. He keeps working his tongue around it; holds fast with his other hand to keep Seth from bucking too wildly and lets his eyes close so he can feel more specifically every twitch and flutter and respond in kind.

Fuck, Lance has _missed_ this: opening someone up, enjoying the gruff, unapologetic maleness of the response, reaching around to feel a _cock_ pulsing needy and firm. He’s missed the unabashedness of the arousal; the natural butting of heads that gets him even harder; the need to _prepare_ someone for his dick (and not just because he wants to watch them squirm). He pulls his finger out for a second and swivels his tongue and is only gone from Seth’s ass for three seconds, rifling through his bedside table and settling back in with lube and a condom within easier reach.

“Your _fingers_ ,” Seth moans when Lance starts up again properly, and the desperation in it makes the bitter taste of lube worth it. “Oh my god, there, there, _there_ …!”

It’s only the dedication to the craft of eating ass that keeps Lance from smirking. _That_ he doesn’t miss; he hasn’t had a chance to miss it. He _prides_ himself on variations of _theretherethere_ (Nyma had been full of shit in a lot of ways, but nicknaming him _Sharpshooter_ hadn’t been one of them). He presses a second finger in, then a third, and fucking _batters_ Seth’s prostate all the while until the man is writhing with it and chanting half into the pillow: “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, _please_ …”

Lance takes out his fingers, tears open a condom with his teeth, and rolls it on. He’s generous and gentle with the lube; greedy and gruff with the hand on Seth’s left ass cheek, kneading and pulling so he can _see_. “You ready for me?” he asks.

Seth rests all his weight on his chest and bucks back in response; has Lance gliding over his hole and resting heavy and hard between his cheeks.

“Beg me for it,” Lance orders.

And this time, the way that Seth gives in right away—the way he’s too desperate to do anything but wiggle his hips back and forth and groan, “Fucking _please_ ,”— makes Lance twitch hard.

“Yeah? You want it that bad?” Lance goads; slides back and forth and wonders if Keith would beg, too. “Want me to fuck you like this?”

Seth nods frantically. He practically goes boneless when Lances readjusts and sinks in. His eyelids flutter and his legs fall further open and he lets out a mindless, “Fu- _huck_ yeah,” as his arms fling mindlessly out to the sides, the left one thumping against the wall.

And Keith _must_ hear that. Had he woken up to it? Knock-knock, who’s there, _fu-huck yeah Lance’s cock_? “That’s it,” Lance finds himself groaning. “ _That’s it_ , shit.”

Then, unmistakably, a knock.

And a strangled sort of “ _Ah_ ,” sound.

His name, maybe?

Fuck, Keith’s heard; has _said his name_.

And god, exactly what kind of scum is Lance that it nearly makes him come on the spot?

He pulls Seth’s hips firm against his with a grunt and orders, “Don’t move,” and hopes it comes off authoritative enough to bely how close to the edge he is. “Don’t fuckin’ move. Wait right there until I decide to give you my cock.” He punctuates it with a firm, open-palmed slap against Seth’s left ass cheek; regrets it a second later with it just reminds him that _Keith can hear that_ ; doesn’t regret it at all when Seth outright _moans_ at the harsh treatment. “Oh?” Lance asks. “You like that?”

Seth’s slurred ‘ _Yeah_ ’ is cut in half with Lance’s follow-up smack. “Holy shit,” he groans, instead. “Holy _fuck_.”

He’s still kind of close, but that almost makes it better for Lance. Fuck, Keith is going to hear what he can do even when he’s keeping the exact kind of control he’s sure Keith doesn’t think he’s capable of.

And _fuck_ , that should make him bite his tongue and gag on his moans and slip his hand over Seth’s lips to shut him up. It shouldn’t make him shouldn’t make him force Seth to impale himself on his cock with the grip he has on his hips; shouldn’t make him accentuate the move with sharp, matching thrusts of his own; shouldn’t make him spank the man at random to hear his delighted moans.

But it does.

He pulls out; holds himself at the base and practically flings Seth onto his side. He gets the picture quick; hurries onto his back and grabs his knees without having to be told and looks Lance right in the eye with his ass on salacious display.

Lance slides back in with nearly no resistance. He presses forward, plants his palms on the mattress on either side of Seth’s head, and watches the unadulterated pleasure make a mess of his partner’s features. “Say my name,” he orders. “Say my fucking name.”

Let Keith hear...fuck, let him _hear_...

“Lance,” Seth gasps. “Fuck, _Lance,_ don’t stop…” He’s damp with sweat. One hand slips off from behind his knee and his leg splays outward accordingly, but he makes no move to grab it again. His hair is sticking to his forehead, the green in his eyes gone behind his blown pupils. He lies back and lets himself get _fucked_ (lets Keith hear him get fucked) and _Jesus Christ_ , Lance is going to come about it.

“Get yourself off for me,” Lance says and Seth is mindless in his compliance, wrapping a hand around his cock and tugging in a way that looks almost painful. “That’s it, show me what I do to you, _show me_ …”

Unbidden, the image of Keith mirroring Seth’s motions floats into his head and sticks there: his roommate’s hair, darker and thicker, sweat-drenched in the same way as he jerks off like he fucking hates it; his provocative, defeated, half-lidded eyes belying the way he _needs it_.

“Kei–” Lance stops the name before it tumbles out. Just. “Keep going. Make me come.” He can _feel_ himself getting harder; knows he won’t last. “Shoot all over yourself and let me feel how tight you get.”

Seth shoots all over himself.

He gets ridiculously tight.

He’s _loud_ about it (so loud Lance can more easily fantasize about what Keith might sound like; can practically hear a muffled, bitter hum from the other side of the wall).

Lance spills into the condom with a moan; doesn’t realize until after he’s done it that he emphasizes his orgasm with three hard spanks. He softens the blows with praise; runs a hand along Seth’s ribs as he comes and rambles, “Fuck, you feel so good, _so good_ …”

And here’s another reason Lance needs these trysts: his orgasm leaves him touch-drunk and blessedly free from the what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-me post-porn anxiety. “Fuck,” Seth sighs. “Holy _shit_.” He twitches a little around Lance’s over-sensitive cock; pulls a pained hum from him that turns into silly post-coital laughter.

What has he done?

He laughs a little harder; presses a kiss against Seth’s lips as he pulls out and discards the condom.

What has he done?

Seth settles with his hands behind his back, far enough away that their sweat can cool individually. Far enough away that he’ll be able to leave without jostling the bed too much.

Lance’s laughter fades.

…

What has he done?

**Author's Note:**

> To keep updated on when the zine will be released (and to find more of my writing 'n' stuff), [follow me on Twitter at @BleedingType](https://twitter.com/BleedingType).


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